


A Loaded Gun

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Buddy Cops, Javert's Detective Boner, M/M, Madeleine Era, Masturbation, Paris Era, Sexual Fantasy, Sidekicks, Toulon Era, Trope Bingo Amnesty, Trope Bingo Round 4, aka Talking Id
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6609913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had first noticed it back in his youth, while still a guard at Toulon. Walking past the convicts, determined that nothing should escape his eye, he had sometimes felt a peculiar stirring in his trousers. It had been a fleeting feeling at most, nothing to take note of. Sometimes it would return at night, in which case he would breathe deeply and wait for it to pass. It had been of no consequence at all. </p>
<p>But then, of course, there had been that particular convict: 24601. Jean Valjean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ages ago, I received a Trope Bingo card where one of the squares contained the trope "talking applicances sidekick". I'm not all that familiar with the trope and wasn't sure what to do with it, but at some point I thought, "What if Javert is so repressed that he basically compartmentalises his sexuality to such an extent he thinks it's not part of him?" And so the idea of the Talking Boner was born. 
> 
> (The observant reader may note that several lines throughout the story are either paraphrased or lifted directly from the Brick. I can only defend myself by arguing that Javert's boner is almost a canonical character in its own right.)

Javert knew well enough what he was and what he was not. Any personal flaw or shortcoming bothered him only if it proved disadvantageous to his work, the source of his pride. He took satisfaction in fulfilling his duty to the best of his abilities, seeking no honour beyond that of carrying out his tasks in a way that left him as close to irreproachable as any man could be. 

If he was born outside of society, what of it? By now it should be clear to anyone where his allegiances lay. He had no interest in being part of the more elevated spheres; they were not for the likes of him, and he would live as a beggar before he turned impostor. And if his eyes never strayed towards the weaker sex, what of it? He had no need for a wife, nor a family; his loyalty, the sum of his very being, belonged to the police and his betters. 

Sentimental fools might lament the lack of love in a man, as though such a lack were a weakness. Javert knew better. His lack of personal affiliations had helped hone him into a razor-sharp weapon, a loaded gun ready to fire at his masters' command, no strings to tie him or tempt him. Other men might close their eyes to unlawfulness at the behest of some seductive grisette, or let themselves be manipulated by threats to their children or wives. Javert, for his part, was free -- and his freedom he had given in the service of the police and Monsieur Chabouillet, for them to wield and to use as they thought it best. 

Javert had no need for being a poet, a charmer, a lover, no more than he had any need for being handsome. His body was no more than a vessel for his will, and as long as it obeyed him he gave it little thought beyond taking some satisfaction in his height, which could intimidate the cockiest of scoundrels. He ate enough to sustain him, slept as much as he could afford, and except for these basic needs, his body had no claims on his person. 

So why, then, should he be cursed with this _thing?_

 

*

 

He had first noticed it back in his youth, while still a guard at Toulon. Walking past the convicts, determined that nothing should escape his eye, he had sometimes felt a peculiar stirring in his trousers. It had been a fleeting feeling at most, nothing to take note of. Sometimes it would return at night, in which case he would breathe deeply and wait for it to pass. It had been of no consequence at all. 

But then, of course, there had been that particular convict: 24601. Jean Valjean. A burglar and a thief, with multiple attempts at escape behind him. Sullen, gloomy, keeping mostly to himself, never talking unless he had to. 

Javert had taken no particular notice of him before that day when he had been supervising the quarry. It had been hot, like most days, and the convicts, unconcerned with presentability, were allowed to peel their smocks off under the sweltering sun. Chest after hairy chest, broad shoulders, bronzed skin. Shaved heads, unkempt beards. Backs bent over their work, many of them striped with lash marks, hands clasped around their picks. 

If asked, he still could not have said what made this particular convict stand out. Perhaps his chest was a little broader, his arms a little stronger, his skin a little more tanned. Perhaps it was the way his eyes had glowered, dark and downcast and yet shining with a particular force of will, like the gleam of gold at the bottom of the ocean. Perhaps it was none of these things but simply one of life's mysteries -- and Javert had no interest in contemplating those. The only matters which had no explanation were those for which no explanation was needed. 

But that day, as he had walked along the lines of bare-chested, toiling men, seeming to him as much animal as human, as he had laid eyes on Jean Valjean and seen him properly for the first time, something had happened that defied all explanation and yet seemed to warrant one. For surely there could be no sense in the fact that as soon as his gaze had met the convict's, a shiver had gone through him, his breath had shortened, and his prick, inert until then, had stirred in his trousers. 

He had turned away, shocked but careful not to let it show. Schooling himself into calmness, forcing his thoughts away from his body's strange reaction, he had continued his work. By nightfall, as he undressed and washed and went to his bunk for some hours of sleep, he was himself once more, or so he thought.

For as he lay there, the image of the convict rose again before his eyes, and his blood rose with it; his pulse grew quick, his face hot, his prick hard. He curled his fists in his sheets, furious, waiting for it to pass. It did not.

"Go away," he whispered harshly through his teeth, careful so as not to wake any of the other guards in the dormitory. "Go away, go away..."

As if to mock him, his accursed flesh grew only harder. He closed his eyes in mortification, the image of Jean Valjean's hard body mingling with other images, best described as something from a nightmare, of himself and the convict -- and how on Earth could his mind come up with such outrageous notions?

_Because you want it,_ a cruel voice whispered in his mind. _You want him. You want to lie with him._

"Go away," he snarled again, resisting the urge to touch his prick where it tented his blanket. "I desire no such thing." 

The pounding between his legs gave lie to his words. He squeezed his eyes shut harder, wishing desperately for the liberation of sleep, but sleep did not come. The images kept flooding his mind, and his flesh grew harder still. 

In the end he gave in. As soon as his hand closed around his prick, he could not hold back; a few thrusts, a muffled groan, and he spilled himself, panting into his pillow, repulsed by the stickiness of his own spend. 

This was the last time, he promised himself. The first and the last time. Surely it must have been some kind of fever. 

 

*

 

It had indeed been the first time, but not the last. 

Javert would never protest an order from his superiors, and so he accepted without complaint any watch that he was given, but silently he dreaded the ones that brought him into the proximity of Jean Valjean. For every time he laid eyes on the convict, it would happen again: a shock to the body, like a fever, like a blow. His cursed flesh stirring, taunting him and tormenting him, no matter how fast he turned away. 

It was intolerable and yet there was no one else to blame. He could not even blame Valjean for it; the convict had done nothing. He signified nothing. A name and a sentence and a red smock, that was all he was and all he should be to Javert. That he also was a figure in Javert's nightmares was but a mere coincidence, a cruel twist of Fate. 

When Jean Valjean was sent away on his parole at last, it had been a relief to Javert. For so many years he had thought himself free. 

And now, here in this small town, the curse had come upon him once more, and like a prisoner who had broken the rules and had his sentence increased for it, Javert found himself in twice the predicament. For this time, the shameful lust that haunted his thoughts and dreams was wrapped up in suspicion and doubt.

 

*

 

The first thing he had done upon arriving in Montreuil-sur-Mer was to report at the police station. A young constable had been tasked with showing Javert around the town. As they passed a square brick building, the man had glanced towards it, smiling.

"Monsieur Madeleine's factory," he said. "My aunt works there. She's a widow with six children; she says she blesses her fortune every day."

Javert had little interest in the fortunes of poor widows. This Monsieur Madeleine, however, had been mentioned by the coach driver on his journey from Paris. A philantropist and a reclusive, whose factories had attracted workers from the whole region -- along with criminal elements, who were always drawn to wealth like moths to the flame. Javert doubted he would be idle in his new position. 

A carriage came rattling towards them. Javert turned his head as it went past, and for a split second his eyes caught those of the passenger inside. A split second -- and it made him stop dead in his tracks.

"Inspector?" 

Those eyes were familiar. Were they not? Or was it just the jolt of his flesh, the skip of his heart that he recognised? 

"Inspector?" said the constable again, sounding slightly consternated. "Is there anything wrong?"

Javert shook his head. "No," he said after a moment. "No. Not at all. Just tell me -- did you see the passenger in the carriage that just passed us? Who was he?"

"Certainly I did," said the constable, smiling again. "It was Monsieur Madeleine himself. Speak of the devil!" 

Not a devil to the townspeople, certainly, but rather an angel. Javert had filed away the incident in his mind at first, ascribing it to a temporary weakness, the result of a long journey. But he could not avoid hearing stories of Monsieur Madeleine during the following days: a rich man living modestly, taking long walks in the fields, lending a hand to anyone in need yet avoiding the invitations of his peers. They had tried to make him mayor, even, and he had refused. 

All of this was suspicious enough to Javert, but then the rumours of the man's strength reached him, and he found himself unable not to act, if reluctantly. So he had made some enquiries, followed some trails, for no other reason than to confirm that these suspicions were unwarranted -- at least that was what he told himself. 

And then one day old Fauchelevent had fallen under his own cart. Javert had been present, taking stock of the situation and keeping control of the crowd. He had just sent for a jack when someone arrived. 

Even amidst the general commotion, he had sensed it: a prickling sensation like tiny hooks being dragged over his skin, down his back, between his legs. A quickening of his blood, of his breath. Before turning, he knew he would lay eyes on Monsieur Madeleine. 

Madeleine did not notice him, at least not to begin with. He cast his eyes about and asked for a lever. Upon being told that it would not be there for a quarter of an hour, he paled, then asked if anybody would be willing to crawl underneath the cart and lift it on his back. 

"I offer five louis d'or," he said, increasing despair in his voice. "Ten. Twenty!" 

Javert watched him. _No_ , he thought, and then, _yes_. Those shoulders. Those eyes. 

"It's not that we don't want to," he said aloud. "But it's not possible."

Madeleine turned to him. A thrill shot down Javert's spine. _Yes._

"It's a matter of strength," he continued, holding Madeleine's gaze. His skin shivered with arousal; in this moment, the feeling was almost enjoyable. "Almost no one would be able to do such a thing. In fact, I have only known one man capable of it."

The old man kept crying out for help, his eyes wide with panic. Javert watched the conflict on Madeleine's face and was filled with a strange, irreverent glee.

"I have only known one man," he repeated, more slowly this time, "who could do what you are asking. A convict." 

Madeleine's eyes met his for a moment -- dark, grave, with the barest hint of an inscrutable gleam. Javert shuddered with a recognition he did not permit himself to name. A peculiar heat stirred within him, old but not forgotten. He did not name that either, but kept his gaze on the man. 

Monsieur Madeleine looked past him, around at the crowd. Then, with a sad smile, he went to his knees and crept under the cart. 

He had saved the old man's life, of course. And met Javert's gaze again afterwards, calmly, with an expression of pained victory. 

 

*

 

Not long afterwards, Monsieur Madeleine was elected mayor. When Javert saw him for the first time in the official robes, he trembled again, whether with suspicion, anger, or arousal, he could not say. And from then on, he avoided him as best he could. 

But still there was no peace to be had. His restless fervour, barely kept at bay during his waking hours, whispered to him in dark nights as he lay in his narrow bed, waiting for sleep to claim him before another day's work: _Monsieur Madeleine is not who he says he is. You know this. I know it._

"Stop it," Javert said coldly, curling his hands into fists so as not to touch the thing. "Monsieur Madeleine is my superior. To suspect him is an act of rebellion. It is intolerable, it is obscene, it is..."

And yet that evil voice kept taunting him. 

_Has ever anyone else brought me to life the way he has?_ He almost thought he could hear echos of laughter in his mind. _Come, Javert, surely you remember. How hard you got, simply from one look into his eyes. How you touched me and pretended it was his hand on me, how you moaned and whimpered and writhed like a shameless beast -- and all because of a convict!_

"Monsieur Madeleine is not a convict!" The horrible doubt nagged him still, but he clung to this one defence, unwilling to cede that the thing might be right. "A convict, giving out alms and building hospitals? Owning factories, going to Mass?" 

He gritted his teeth, taking a devilish pleasure in keeping his hands away from the swollen flesh between his legs. "You are trying to corrupt me, like perversion has corrupted so many others. But I am not like them. I am in control of myself, I have proper respect for my betters, and you, you want to disgrace me, to make me accuse Monsieur Madeleine of..."

Javert could not even bear the thought. To harbour such mistrust against a superior, only because of this vile thing that had taken place in him against his will! 

And worse, why did the mayor have to encourage such suspicions? For that was what he ultimately did, being so furtive, fraternising with the poor, walking with a limp...

No, he reminded himself. He would not give in to treacherous thoughts -- but why would the mayor make it so easy for the curse to poison his ear?

Fury boiled in him, helpless and despairing. At length he could not hold himself back anymore, and grasped the hard hot shaft with a grunt, relishing the near agony of the grip. "By God," he muttered, squeezing hard, "if it's pain you want, pain you shall have." 

Pain or pleasure, there was no difference. He thrust into his hand, scraping his nails along the hot skin, wanting to punish it, to chastise it; his other hand found the balls and rubbed them, too hard, making him gasp and tremble. 

How disgraceful it all was, how undignified, how shameful -- and to think that he was being goaded into suspecting Monsieur Madeleine, who had done nothing wrong except to slightly resemble a convict, broad-shouldered and tanned in the sunlight; a convict who had, many years ago, looked into Javert's eyes...

"God!" he groaned again, spilling himself. He slumped back onto his pillow, his heart racing, his vision hazy. For a moment he could think about nothing but the fact that it was over, his damned flesh had ceased to torment him, he would be able to sleep. 

Then he became aware of the stickiness on his hands and thighs, and got to his feet with a grimace. As he washed, the thought of Monsieur Madeleine rose in his mind once more; deliberately he pushed it away. No more of this, he thought, scowling. No more.

 

*

 

Apart from brief meetings at the mairie to deliver his reports, he successfully managed to avoid Monsieur Madeleine for a while. And still, any chance encounter on the streets would leave him aroused and angry in equal measure: angry with these desires that had got hold of him, a lasting mark of Toulon; angry with the mayor, who would not behave as a mayor should, but insisted on coddling beggars and tramps; angry with himself, for letting these suspicions take hold, for not being able to let go of his darkest thoughts. 

Then, of course, came the night of his thwarted attempt to arrest the prostitute who had attacked a citizen. And who had thwarted him, if not the mayor himself? Who else could or would have done it?

It had started out ordinarily enough. The woman was violent; that much was clear. Her pleas and sobs did not move him any more than her pitiful attempt at flirtation. Javert pronounced his sentence and turned his back on her, ready for the constables to take her away.

Then, of course, he became aware of it: the mayor's presence. His own involuntary reaction, like a spark setting fire to his blood. The intrusion was unwelcome, but what could he do? Nothing, except rise to his feet and bow. 

The woman, however, had no such ideas of decorum. Before anyone could stop her, she committed an act so atrocious that Javert could hardly believe his own eyes. A whore, spitting in the face of a magistrate! 

As he was struggling to take in the tableau before him -- the woman fiery-eyed like a harpy, the mayor wiping his face -- the voice in his mind whispered, insidiously, _There it is. That's the sort of man he is. They know each other, those two._

A low, cruel laugh. _Imagine yourself in her place, on your knees before him. Imagine him making use of you, like he must be using her. You'd like that, wouldn't you?_

It was a taunt of the worst sort, and yet the connection between the two, the woman and the mayor, made a terrible sort of sense. Before Javert could say another word, however, something even worse happened. 

"Inspector Javert, this woman is to go free."

It was the last thing he had expected, not even from this man, the mayor, who was so frightfully understanding of all sorts of miscreants. Javert felt his mouth fall open. Stupefaction filled him, momentarily silencing even the demon in his mind. 

How could this be?

During the haze of confusion, he vaguely heard the woman talking -- rambling along, at some point taking his hand -- but it did not matter. None of this made sense anymore. If she was the mayor's tart, why had he allowed her to behave that way? Why would he order Javert to let her go free? 

_To spite you,_ the voice whispered. _He knows you are after him. He knows what you want. And he would not mind driving you to the brink of madness._

A loud click jolted him out of his shock. The woman had put her hand on the latch and was about to open the door. 

"Stop!" he cried. "Sergeant! Who said you could let her go?"

"I did," said Monsieur Madeleine, taking a step towards him.

So it was real after all. He had not imagined it. 

Javert suppressed a tremor. Perhaps it was true after all. What sort of magistrate would behave in this manner? But had not this magistrate been appointed by the higher authorities -- could he possibly presume they had been wrong?

"Monsieur le maire," he said, "I must object."

The woman's breath was coming in fast little gasps, but Javert did not look at her. All his attention was on the mayor. The mayor, his superior, whom he ought to obey in all respects -- but what if --?

"Kindly leave," said Monsieur Madeleine. 

They stared at each other. Monsieur Madeleine's eyes were dark and calm with firm resolve, as befitted a man certain of his authority -- but was his gaze not familiar? Had he not seen those eyes before? Javert's mind spun, as if he were standing on a knife's edge, disorder and distraction awaiting him whichever way he'd fall. 

It could not be. 

It was. 

It was impossible. 

_Do not deny it,_ that demonic voice whispered. _It is he. It has always been he. If you were to reach out now, to rip off his shirt, you would have the proof you need..._

At this Javert finally found the force to pull himself together. Was he so weak that he would succumb to the demon? Was he going to defy a superior to his face, on account of nothing more than his own base urges? In front of a woman of the town and several constables, no less! Had he not been humiliated enough already?

With a stiff bow he turned and left, anger and desire coursing through his veins. 

Outside, the cold night did little to clear his mind. He stomped through the streets towards his rooms, glaring in front of him without really seeing, only vaguely aware of the townspeople hurrying out of his way. 

So that was what it had come to -- he, Javert, having his judgement overruled, his dignity spat on, all for the sake of a common slut? Should he be treated like this by a magistrate whose own past was hidden in darkness, who indulged beggars and wretches, who kept undermining the very society he of all people should strive to uphold? 

Even now, the worry that he was committing treason niggled at him. But then he recalled once more Madeleine's dark eyes staring him down, and he pictured those eyes in a younger but harsher face, and the cruel laughter in his mind rose and drowned out every bit of doubt. 

He ascended the stairs to his rooms in a cloud of wrath that was only intensified by the heavy throb of his erection. What gall the convict had, to come here and deceive a whole town! To play the honest man while spitting in the face of law and order! To walk the streets quite fearlessly, his mere presence calling forth the demon in Javert -- the demon who, outrageous as it was, had been right all along! 

No longer would he deny his own instincts, he thought furiously as he slammed the door shut. If the truth should come about by means of his own perversion, so be it. This masquerade had been going on long enough. 

Sitting down at his desk, he took his quill and a scrap of paper, and started to draft a letter to Monsieur Chabouillet. 

_And what will you tell him?_ the voice taunted him as he ran the pen over the sheet, jotting down the introductory remarks. _That this man sets your loins on fire? That he haunted your dreams in Toulon, that you wanted to take him and be taken by him in turn? That you still want it?_

"Hold your tongue!" Javert barked. His hand trembled, making a blotch on the paper. In his mind those hazy fantasies rose again, mingling with memories: not only of filthy acts he had witnessed in the bagne, but also of Jean Valjean as he had been then, sweaty and bronzed under the scorching sun. 

"I will tell Monsieur Chabouillet of my observations," he said aloud. "I will let him know of Madeleine's lack of papers when he first arrived, of his limp, of his strength. Those are all very reasonable grounds for suspicion. You are trying to mock me, but rest assured I am acting of my own free will and in accordance with my own reason."

The memory of Madeleine's gaze locked in his own shot through him like a flash; his prick gave a throb. Javert grimaced and let go of his pen.

"You are not my master," he muttered as he opened his trousers to free his straining cock. "I am telling Monsieur Chabouillet because it is the right thing to do. Your sordid suggestions have no bearings on the matter."

He had not touched it for a long time, having avoided Madeleine as well as he could until tonight's events had roused the demon anew. Groaning, he thumbed at the foreskin, dragged his nails down the rock-hard shaft. 

_Tell yourself that as much as you please,_ the demon hissed. _But we both know better. Would you ever have suspected to begin with, were it not for me?_

Javert spread his knees and leaned back in his chair, abandoning himself to the filthy task. "Pride yourself all you like," he snarled, thrusting into his own fist. "It was not you who followed his traces to Faverolles. It was not you who looked into the story of the bishop and the Savoyard. In the end, you are nothing but a nuisance, and I am a man of the law."

Mocking laughter echoed through his mind. _Tell that to Monsieur Chabouillet. Tell him how you lusted for a convict, tell him of your impure thoughts of your superior. Do you think he would keep you after that? Do you think he would allow you to reveal your shame, bare yourself, give yourself up for his judgement?_

"Do not speak to me of Monsieur Chabouillet!" Javert tried to recall his superior's features, but the only face that appeared before his eyes was that of Mayor Madeleine. 

Groaning with frustration, he pinched his balls, arching his back at the sharp shot of pain. "He is an honourable man who has nothing to do with any of this, he is..."

_Such a loyal dog,_ the voice taunted. Javert clenched his teeth, feeling his release approaching. Before his mind's eye, Madeleine's mouth twisted with scorn. _Such a good loyal dog. What if your Monsieur Chabouillet knew what you are? What if he could see you now, panting and gasping and groping at yourself, all for the sake of a convict?_

Javert threw his head back, spending his fury and lust in one great shudder. The mocking laughter rang loud in his ears for a moment, then was drowned out by his own gasping breath. 

At length he straightened and rose to his feet. He washed thoroughly and then sat back down, picking up the quill. 

_Monsieur le secrétaire, I wish to report some grave concerns._

 

*

 

As Javert waited for Monsieur Madeleine to acknowledge his presence, he kept head bowed and eyes downcast. If asked, he would have said it was out of deference, which was not untrue. But there was also another reason: that familiar, treacherous heat of his body, which had tricked him into wrongfully accusing his superior. He knew that looking at the mayor would only make it worse. 

But there it was: even now he was not free of his body's urges. How fitting that he should leave his post in dishonour. What sort of honest man would not only yield to his basest impulses, again and again, but allow himself to forget his station and betray his betters? 

Finally Monsieur Madeleine put down his pen and turned to him. Javert straightened, but did not raise his eyes. He had already committed the mayor's face and body to memory; doing so again would only make everything worse. 

"Well, Javert, what is it?" 

Explaining himself to the mayor would be a challenge. He had known as much. It would be so easy to downplay the gravity of the crime, especially since Monsieur Madeleine was so lenient on miscreants. 

The responsibility lay on Javert's shoulders to make sure that the truth was revealed and the order restored. 

"I have committed an offence, and I should be punished for it." The unpleasant suspicion occurred to him that his words sounded far too suggestive, but that was yet another sign of how far his perversion had led him. "I will not resign; that would be insufficient. You must dismiss me." 

"But what in the world are you talking about?" exclaimed Monsieur Madeleine. Still looking down, Javert imagined his eyes, dark and wide with surprise. "You say you want to be dismissed -- why?" 

Javert took a deep breath. "I will explain, Monsieur le maire." 

As he laid out the facts, a strange calm came over him. From now on, the burden would no longer be his to bear. He would pay, not only for his mistake, but for his whole weakness. To confess was painful, but it was the good kind of pain, like cleansing a festering wound of and exposing it to daylight. 

For so long his suspicions had tormented him along with his cursed desires; it was a relief to know once and for all that the former was merely a result of the latter. He did not have to tell Monsieur Madeleine of his restless nights; there was no need to inconvenience his superior with that information. But to offer up his shame and dishonour, and to receive his due in turn -- that was just. That was the world made right. 

"I am forced to admit the man is Jean Valjean," he said at last. "I, too, recognised him."

"Are you sure?" Monsieur Madeleine asked softly. 

Javert heard himself laugh. It was an unlovely, dry sound. "Oh yes, quite sure." 

Monsieur Chabouillet had told him in no uncertain terms that he had been mistaken. The other convicts had recognised Valjean. 

The man he had seen did not, in fact, look like Jean Valjean as he remembered him. He was coarse and haggard, as any ageing convict would be, but his eyes were dull and furtive, his posture slumped. Javert had stared at him, trying to reconcile the sight with the image in his mind. To think that this was the man who had haunted him, _this_ was the figure whose image had driven him to such unnatural excitement... 

The shame returned now, and a heightened sense of the mayor's presence with it. He took a pinch of powdered wood from the blotting-bowl on the desk and rolled it between his fingers, more to distract himself than anything else. 

"Indeed," he said slowly, "now that I have seen the real Jean Valjean, I cannot imagine how I could have been so mistaken. I humbly beg your apologies, Monsieur le maire."

Monsieur Madeleine, who could not know the extent of Javert's embarrassment, waved him off, asking for details. Javert replied to his best knowledge. His mind was still on what was yet to come: the settlement of scores, the world returned to order. 

At last, Monsieur Madeleine stood up. Javert suppressed a shudder. Finally, he thought, finally the mayor would give him what had asked for -- and shades of images flashed through his mind, gone as quickly as they came, forbidden for him to even dare envision. It was all out of his hands now, it was all in the mayor's hands --

"I want you to stay in your post," said Monsieur Madeleine.

Javert finally raised his eyes to meet the mayor's. Of course, he thought, a shiver going through him. He should have known the mayor would not give him his due without a fight. 

"I offended against authority, and I am myself a representative of authority," he said. "Moreover, I have often been harsh in my life, and I should be equally harsh with myself. I must be made an example of, Monsieur le maire, for the good of the service. I request that Inspector Javert be dismissed." 

"Well," the mayor said, "we shall see." He extended his hand. 

Javert recoiled, deeply shocked. "That is out of the question," he snapped, momentarily not caring that he was berating the mayor. "A magistrate, shaking hands with an informer?"

He took his leave and shot the door carefully behind him, still confounded. The disappointment in having his request rejected was at war with the awareness that it was not his place to question Monsieur Madeleine's orders. What was more, he still could not let go of the horrible thought of Monsieur Madeleine noticing his arousal -- or, for that matter, Monsieur Madeleine's own strange behaviour. To forgive Javert so easily, to refuse him the punishment he deserved, to offer him his hand -- 

_A magistrate, shaking hands with an informer?_ the cursed voice piped up, throwing his own words back at him. _An informer whose cock grows hard at the sight of him?_

Javert's face heated. He quickened his stride, eager to leave the mairie. The hallway leading to the exit seemed far too long. 

_You stood there and told him of all the ways you have wronged him, apart from this one. What would he have said, had he noticed my presence? Would he have chastised you the way you deserve? Or the way you want?_

"This is all your fault," Javert hissed, glancing quickly around him. "It was your fault I made that mistake to begin with. You almost ruined my life. Just because you could not tell the difference between a convict and an honest man..."

Finally he was outside, but the busy street did not calm his aching flesh, nor drown out the relentless hissing in his mind. _Imagine it. Think of his strength. Think of him straining under the cart. Think of him bare-chested in Toulon..._

"No!" he said, almost in despair. "You are wrong, Monsieur Chabouillet himself told me that the real Valjean has been found. And I went there and saw him myself. You are wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong..."

_How frightfully certain you are,_ the voice sneered. _Or are you trying to convince yourself? What did you feel when you saw that other man?_

"Nothing," Javert said tersely. He had now put some distance between himself and the mairie, and the frightful heat in his blood was starting to cool off. 

_Nothing,_ the voice echoed. _Nothing at all. And my very absence should have alerted you._

Then, mercifully, the voice fell silent. Gradually, his flesh softened to a steady half-hard state -- faint enough for him to ignore until it went away, Javert thought with relief. The last thing he needed was to be plagued with a terrible erection in court. 

And it was high time for him to leave. Soon Jean Valjean would be back in chains and all Javert's suspicions laid to rest once and for all. If his curse had somehow shifted, the demon setting its sights on Monsieur Madeleine... Well. He would have to live with that. 

It was far better than the thought that he had stood there before the real Jean Valjean and bowed his head to him -- the thought of the demon being right after all. 

Javert shuddered; then, shaking his head, he squared his shoulders and headed for the carriage to Arras. 

 

*

 

As he entered the hospital, his excitement was pounding in his chest, bringing a spring to his steps. If it stirred him in other ways as well, he would not let that bother him. "At last!" he muttered to himself, striding through the hall. "At last I have him." 

_You could have had him sooner,_ the small voice in his head sneered. _So much for not suspecting Monsieur Madeleine!_

"There is no Monsieur Madeleine!" Javert rubbed his hands together, pausing outside the door. A convict and a whore, what a suitable pair. Well, they would not be together for much longer; the whore would go to prison and the convict to the bagne. Beyond that he did not care what happened to the woman. But that Jean Valjean should go back to Toulon, where he belonged -- that was right. That was just. 

_And you are going to let him go, without ever laying hands on him?_

"Of course," he snapped, annoyed at his body's reaction to the images that rose half-formed in his mind: Jean Valjean in chains. Jean Valjean trapped, his convict's eyes burning in dark defiance. "He belongs not to me, but to the law."

The reminder did him good. What sort of man had he become, to even consider letting a convict bargain for his freedom? The voice fell silent for a moment. Heartened, Javert turned the door handle and let himself in. 

The convict was sitting on a chair by the bed, his back to the door, his head bent. Javert looked at the broad shoulders and shivered with satisfaction. Valjean's hair seemed paler than before; he filed away this detail for later if for some reason it should prove important. 

So close, he felt the effect of Valjean's presence stronger than ever before. How could he ever have been fooled? Surely no honest man would have awakened such base desires in him. Yes, Monsieur Chabouillet's commanding voice and piercing gaze had made an impression on him, but that was the honest admiration of a servant for his master. There was nothing of the gutter in Javert's regard for his superior. No cruel voice whispering to him at night of all the filthy things he and Monsieur Chabouillet could do together... 

A shriek echoed through the room. The woman was sitting up in bed, pale as a ghost, and she was pointing at Javert.

"Monsieur Madeleine!" she cried, voice choked and weak. "Save me!" 

Valjean raised his head. For a second his face clouded, and then he rose to his feet, murmuring something to the woman that was probably meant to be soothing. 

"I know what you're here for," he said quietly, turning to Javert. 

_Ah,_ the demon in Javert's mind leered, _do you now?_

Javert pursed his mouth. He was here to arrest Valjean, and they both knew it. He had no other purpose, no other desire --

_Don't you?_

"Hurry up, then," he said aloud, as much to drown out the mocking laughter as to make his intentions clear. There was no reason to bother with formalities. He had spent enough time addressing Jean Valjean with formality and correctness; now, with no false name to save him, the convict would be caught at last, gone from Javert's life. 

Without hesitation, he reached out to grip Valjean by the collar. The heat that rolled through him as soon as his fist closed around the fabric almost made him shudder. 

The woman started wailing. Valjean said, hurriedly, in a low voice, "Just give me three days to fetch her child. I'll pay anything you like --"

_Anything you like._ Javert forced away the images those words brought to mind as quickly as they'd come. 

"You must be joking!" he scoffed. "I did not hold you for a fool. Three days, to fetch her child? Never heard such nonsense."

"Fetch my child?" the woman cried. "Isn't she here? Oh, Monsieur Madeleine --!"

To hear those words from her mouth made him strangely furious. "Don't you start!" he barked, stamping his foot. "A gaolbird playing the gentleman and a slut playing the lady, that's a fine way to run things! But no more of that." 

He leaned down towards her, his fingers tightening on Valjean's collar. "There is no Monsieur Madeleine," he said again, articulating each word with grim triumph. "There is no mayor. Only a convict, a convict called Jean Valjean, and that's the man I'm holding."

Her eyes opened wide. Her mouth opened too, but only a faint sound came out. She reached out with a trembling hand, and then fell back on the bed -- probably dead, Javert thought. 

Valjean plucked Javert's hand off his collar and shoved it away. "You have killed that woman," he said. 

"That's enough!" Javert snapped. How dare the convict be insolent to him, as if he were the one who had lived dishonestly, deceiving a whole town? "We have wasted enough time. Get moving, or I'll put the handcuffs on you."

The voice in his mind let out a hissing sound at his words; immediately he wished he could take them back. But Valjean merely gave him a cool look and turned away. 

Before Javert could say anything more, he'd walked to the corner and the old wreck of an iron bedstead standing there. Valjean broke off a crossbar with ease and then turned back towards him. 

"I would advise you," he said very quietly, "not to interfere with me in this moment."

Javert watched the hands clasping the bar. A thrill raced down his spine and he swallowed. _Imagine,_ the cursed demon whispered in his ear. _Imagine what he could do to you. Bend you like that bar. Crush you between his palms._

He straighented his back, doggedly ignoring the pounding of his groin as Valjean turned away from him, kneeling by the bed. Javert watched him, his hands curling into fists by his side. He did not fear Valjean, he told himself, not for any reason. He was simply allowing him a moment's reprieve, the better to enjoy his capture. 

At last, Valjean stood. He left the bar on the floor, and Javert licked his lips, nerves on fire. _He'll use his hands only,_ the voice whispered excitedly. _Put them around your neck, bend you to his will._

But the convict came forth calmly, holding out his hands to Javert. "I am at your disposal," he said.

Javert was taken aback, but only for a moment. Criminals had tried to play tricks on him before. Quickly he pulled out his handcuffs and smacked them around Valjean's wrists. 

"There," he said between his teeth. "Off we go. I have several men waiting outside. Did you think you could escape me? Ha! Not so, Jean-le-cric. You tried to fool me, as you fooled others. You thought I would not recognise you, that I had forgotten all about you..."

He realised he was running his mouth, and stopped abruptly, annoyed. Valjean was silent, looking down, a faraway expression on his face. 

_But in the end, he did fool you,_ the demon whispered as he marched Valjean out of the room. _You mistook a different man for Valjean. You refused to listen to me, although I knew it all along. It was_ me _he did not fool._

Javert kept a hand on Valjean's shoulder as he steered him through the hallways. He did not allow himself to dwell on the man's strength, the powerful body hid under the layers of respectable clothing. Loath as he was to admit it, the demon was right: the curse of his body had not been mistaken. The blood was racing through his veins as hotly as when he'd first laid eyes on the convict, as when he had watched the false mayor lift a cart. 

Jean Valjean was his curse, but soon he would be gone from Javert's life. Soon enough this unwanted lust would leave him. 

"You could not fool me," he muttered again as he threw open the door to the hospital and steered Valjean outside. "Never." 

Valjean said nothing. Javert gritted his teeth. Somewhere in his mind, a demonic voice was laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

Jean Valjean's recapture, where Javert had played a crucial role, was thought to be the result of good fortune and diligence, and not as the result of anything out of the ordinary. And Javert himself was content to leave his superiors and colleagues with this impression. 

That he should be summoned to Paris to assist in the search, yes, that was natural. After all, he had spent the last few years in the ex-con's vicinity, forced to carry out his false orders. Who better suited to catch Valjean?

Criminals of all sorts came to Paris to hide. For them to leave again would make little sense. If anyone had asked Javert why he had thought to keep an eye on the place where travellers boarded the coach for Montfermeil, he would have attributed it to nothing more than a stroke of luck. 

In truth, he had been searching the more dubious streets, looking for informers, when suddenly his skin prickled with a feeling he recognised. Scanning the surroundings, he caught a glimpse of a figure disappearing around the corner -- only a glimpse, but it was enough. The man's broad shoulders, his quick movements despite the slight limp: there was no doubt in Javert, especially given his body's immediate reaction.

_There he is!_

Javert followed in quick strides, turning the corner only to find himself faced with two different alleys where the street split in two. The street to the left was the obvious choice, as it led into a maze of dark and narrow alleys, where criminals could easily hide away. The broader street to the right led towards the main road to the north. Valjean had fled here from the north; he had no reason to turn back that way. His life of lies in Montreuil-sur-Mer was lost forever. By all rights Javert should turn left and search for his prey in the shadows of Paris, not along the busy thoroughfare where honest people travelled.

So why did he feel himself almost magnetically drawn to the right, where it made no sense for him to go?

That thing within him, brought to life by the short glimpse of Jean Valjean, was again breathing fire through his veins, making his flesh stir. _He's close,_ the voice in his mind whispered. _Don't pretend you can't feel it. Follow him._

Javert scrutinised the alley to the left. Beggars lined along the walls, people in tattered clothing scurrying along -- precisely the kind of hiding place Valjean would choose. But when he took a step to the right to get out of a cart's way, his cock gave an almost painful twitch in his trousers. 

_There!_

"Are you trying to trick me?" Javert snarled, deliberately stepping back. Immediately the sensation eased. Frowning, he took another few steps rightwards, towards the street leading to the main road, and was rewarded with a rush of blood to his groin so strong he almost swayed on his feet. 

"What on Earth..!" For a moment, he felt genuinely perplexed, looking between the two streets: the one where reason told him to look for Valjean, and the one towards which the mysterius pull of his curse was urging him. 

But he had wasted enough time already. And had not his instincts been right about Madeleine?

Without more thought, he turned right. The feeling grew stronger and stronger as he strode along the walls of the building; he had lost sight of Valjean, but he could feel his presence in the heat of his own skin. Soon Valjean's frame would appear before his eyes once more, soon he would be able to lay his hands on him, soon...

 _Soon we shall have him,_ the voice whispered in devilish delight. _And then what, Javert? Are you going to get what you want?_

"Quiet," he muttered through clenched teeth. He had no time or patience for distractions. He had rounded yet another corner, and there, a little distance in front of him, was that well-known figure of Jean Valjean disappearing into a tavern. It was a tavern Javert knew: the coach would stop there before going north. 

So Jean Valjean was indeed returning to his lost territory, although for what nefarious purposes Javert could not fathom. Otherwise he would have been hiding away in the dark tangled alleyways, along with other criminals and thiefs. 

_Go in there,_ the voice suggested as his prick gave yet another impatient twitch. _You will have him all to yourself._

For a moment he allowed himself to imagine it. Jean Valjean, desperate, caught between fight or flight and knowing that neither would lead anywhere -- that finally he was at Javert's mercy, that he would have no choice but to do Javert's bidding.

_And then what, Javert?_

He shook his head to clear away all the confused, heated notions that were clouding his reason. The coach wouldn't be here until early in the afternoon; Valjean must be planning to hide away in the tavern until then. 

No matter what the voice was suggesting, apprehending Valjean unassisted would be impossible. And there was still the danger of him escaping through a back door, which meant there was no time to lose. 

Javert hastily scribbled a note, summoned a nearby street urchin and sent the child off along with some coins to the nearest station house. Then he took up position in the shadow of a doorway across the street from the tavern. If Valjean tried to leave through the main entrance, he would not go unnoticed. 

The minutes dragged past. Nothing happened. People entered and left the tavern, but Jean Valjean was not among them. Javert forced himself to stay still, imagining Valjean slipping out a back door, a window, out of Javert's grasp -- but his pulse was still beating fast, his flesh was still hard, and now he almost welcomed it, for surely it must be a signal of Valjean's presence. 

When at last backup arrived in the form of five young constables, Javert did not waste his time. He sent two of them around to the back of the tavern and posted two outside the main entrance, then beckoned the last one to come with him. Grasping his nightstick firmly in one hand, he threw up the door with the other. 

The room inside was bustling, respectable travellers and riffraff alike crowding around the tables. Javert stood in the doorway for a moment, noting how the chatter died away as the patrons closest to him became aware of his presence. If Valjean was to pick a fight, better let these people clear out. Of course some of them would have good reasons to fear the police, but he would not bother with that today. There was one man, and one man only, on his mind. 

_He's at the back. Go on, go on._

This time he did not even bother to question what his body told him. Motioning for the constable to follow, he strode through the room and towards the back of the tavern. For each step the pounding in his heart and groin grew stronger. Soon, soon --! 

At a table in the corner, a figure sat in silence, face half-hidden in the shadows. Javert would not have needed the rush of excitement through his veins to know who it was. As they approached, the man looked up and caught sight of them. Lamplight fell on his face and revealed him to their eyes: trapped and terrified. 

"Jean Valjean," said Javert. "Soon to be mayor of the bagne and nothing else." 

Valjean did not respond. His eyes darted sideways to the constable and then back to Javert; his throat was working and his face was a deathly pale. 

It was the face of a man who was desperate, Javert thought. Desperate enough to kill, perhaps, or to try a bargain -- desperate enough to offer himself --

"Get out the cuffs," he said brusquely to the constable, cutting off his own trail of thought. Then he turned back to Valjean. "There is no point in trying to flee. We have men outside at the back and front. You are a wanted criminal. If you try to escape, we will catch you again. Understood?"

Valjean shut his eyes, breathing deeply. He was still trembling, and again Javert thought of all the ways in which he could try to plead for his freedom. 

_Anything you want,_ the demon inside him whispered. _Just think of it. Anything at all..._

"Then let it be so," Valjean said at last. His voice was weak but steady, and when he rose to his feet and held out his hands for the constable to cuff him, he did not tremble anymore. 

They took him outside, all the eyes of the tavern following them. Javert led the way, the thrill of the successful chase within him still. His body was keenly aware of Valjean's presence right behind him, but he would not succumb to it. He was above all temptations of the flesh. He was stronger than the demon in his head.

Outside, a carriage was waiting. Javert stood back to let the constables take Valjean inside. As the convict passed him, he raised his eyes to meet Javert's for the briefest of seconds. Valjean's eyes were dark and deep, as devoid of any hope as they had been that day in Toulon. Javert swallowed against the feelings that stirred within him: that same old heat, and something else, something curious and disconcerting he could not name.

Then Valjean looked away and the moment passed; the strange feeling vanished and left nothing but triumph in its wake. Javert saw him enter the carriage, the youngest of the constables giving him an extra shove as he climbed in behind him. They would take Valjean to the Conciergerie, and there he would remain until the trial. Then he would be sentenced to the bagne for life -- or to death. 

Either way, Javert would never see him again. There was no possibility for Valjean to escape from the Conciergerie, the way he had done in Montreuil. 

"And I won't ever see you again either," he muttered with a downwards glance. "Thank God." 

But at this he found himself almost rueful, for was it not thanks to this curse that the convict had been apprehended at last? His own body, which he had thought treacherous, had in fact proved itself useful as ever, albeit in a mortifying manner. He had taken great satisfaction in being a weapon of justice, which had led to even greater distress at his corrupting urges, but even they had a reason, even they served a purpose. 

Yes, Javert thought, for a moment almost at peace despite the way his body still clamoured for release. The devil that had followed him for so long would soon be laid to rest, but now he could afford to think of it with magnanimity. After all, he owed today's capture to its lead -- although this was not something that he would see fit to mention in his report, as much as Monsieur Chabouillet had always praised him for his instincts. 

 

*

 

"Jean Valjean is dead," Javert said to himself, "and I am a ninny." 

Yes, Jean Valjean was dead. There was no doubt about it; the newspaper had said so, and presumably their information came from the authorities in Toulon. Javert did not have any reason to distrust their word. And he had found no trace of Jean Valjean in Montfermeil.

So why this niggling doubt? He could not explain it, even to himself. But the rumours of the rich beggar bothered him. 

The demon within him had been silent for these last months. Occasionally, it would raise its head at the sight of a man who resembled Jean Valjean in some fleeting way -- in the breadth of his shoulders, the tilt of his head -- but always it would lie back down, content to retreat in the knowledge that its target was out of reach. If it sometimes came back to haunt him in the dark of night, reminding him of Valjean trapped there in the tavern, or toiling barechested under the sun, Javert knew that it had not won. He had not let himself be corrupted or bribed; he had not put lust over duty. Valjean had not fooled him, and neither had the demon, useful as it had proved at times. 

And yet. 

There was no way around it: part of him would not believe that Jean Valjean was dead, though by all rights it should have died with him. His curse, unwanted as it was, had also pointed him towards the truth in the past. The mere rumours of the beggar had not been enough to fully waking the sleeping beast, but they had stirred an unrest in him, a desire to know for certain, one way or another.

And so he found himself huddling on the street one night, disguised in rags and tatters, halfway annoyed with himself for throwing away his rare night off on a mission that by all indications was futile, but knowing he would not have been able to concentrate on improving literature of any sort until his knowledge had been sated. People passed by, occasionally dropping a sou or two into the cup in front of him, and Javert watched them in distaste. If the rabble were throwing away their money on any old beggar in the streets, their wages could hardly be too low. 

After a while, something changed, like a scent in the air, a ghost against his skin. Before he knew it, he'd straightened, and had to force himself to hunch back down in order to keep his disguise. But the unrest within him remained and grew stronger; his breath quickened, and when at last someone stopped before him, he knew before looking up that he would lay eyes on Jean Valjean. 

And still it was a shock. Valjean's tattered coat was only marginally better than the rags Javert was wearing; his cap was pulled low. And yet his eyes were the same as always, and the almost painful rush of blood to Javert's groin was the same as always, and all that kept him from jumping to his feet and throwing himself upon him was the demon's excited crow: _do it!_

Javert held back, knowing that whatever his urges demanded of him, he must remain in control. He could not be certain that Valjean had recognised him, despite the way his eyes had widened upon meeting Javert's, and he could not risk betraying his cover too early. There was a chance, however slight, that he was wrong. What was more, he would need better proof than his own perverse compass if he was to arrest a man and have it approved by M. Chabouillet. 

So he kept still, and waited for Valjean to withdraw, and then, once he felt certain he would not be spotted, he got to his feet and swiftly followed, the way he had followed him so many months ago -- if it was indeed Valjean, he reminded himself. He had been wrong once before.

 _Arras, yes,_ the demon hissed. _But you didn't listen to me then, did you?_

"Shut up and be useful," Javert muttered under his breath. His cock gave a forceful throb. 

After twists and turns, they reached the rundown old shack that Javert recognised as the Gorbeau house. He waited until Valjean had disappeared inside, and then tracked down the landlady, who was all too eager to answer his qustions. 

"So much money, Monsieur, I've never seen the likes of it! And what a mysterious character. Keeps to himself with the little girl, stays inside during the day -- I said to myself, 'I'll be damned if he is not a criminal of sorts.' And I was right, wasn't I?" She watched him expectantly. "What will you do, Monsieur?" 

Javert glanced up the rickety stairs. Somewhere in this building, Jean Valjean was hiding -- he was almost sure of it. And yet, he could not act too rashly. There was always the chance that he had imagined Valjean's presence, that the curse of his blood was becoming too strong, driving him to see things which were not there. It was not a thought he enjoyed.

"As for the moment," he said, "I would like to rent a room."

 

*

 

After dark, Javert returned to the tenement. The house was in shadows, all lights exstinguished. He locked himself in with the key given to him by the landlady, and climbed the stairs with steady steps, determined not to set off his prey.

The hallway upstairs, too, was in darkness. Javert could make out a row of doors on one hand. The landlady had told him which belonged to the mysterious rentier. Even if she had not, he would have felt it: that vague but insistant pull. 

_Right behind that door,_ the demon whispered. _So close._

Javert went to the door and stood in front of it, hoping to hear Valjean's voice. He needed proof, proof which he could cite to Monsieur Chabouillet. A less honest man would have pretended to have heard Valjean's voice, but Javert would resign from his post before lying to a superior's face. 

The minutes went by, long seconds punctuated by the beats of Javert's blood and the whispered imaginings of his mind. He tried his best to ignore it. If he was right -- if it was indeed Jean Valjean on the other side of the door -- a misstep could ruin everything and cheat him of his prize. 

He swallowed, his hands curling into fists. The thought of Valjean escaping his grasp once more was unbearable. To have to live in this state of unfulfilment for years on end, perhaps for the rest of his life...

More minutes passed. Still there was no sound coming from the other side of the door, and at length he withdrew to his room in gloomy disappointment. 

There would be more chances, he told himself. In the morning, he might yet gather sufficient evidence. A simple glance would do. Catching Valjean's voice would do. He had been careful, and he would continue to be careful. 

In the morning he would have to report to the stationhouse, a duty he could not neglect without sufficient reason, but until then, he would remain at his post. He would forgo sleep tonight if it meant the chance to lay his hands on Jean Valjean at last. 

Not to mention, with the curse so alive and persistent in his blood, he would be hard pressed to fall asleep regardless. Javert paced the floor a couple of times, restless and frustrated, then came to a halt facing the wall. 

The long hours of the night lay before him. He must remain alert, ready to act if he heard any sounds of footsteps in the hallway. Until Valjean made a move, Javert could do nothing.

 _Are you so sure?_ the voice murmured. _What if you were to catch him asleep? To tie him up and trap him... Or be trapped by him. Imagine it, the tables turned, he your captor and you his willing prisoner._

Javert shook his head in silent rage. To wait was very well, but must he also endure the torture of his own loins? The persistent mocking of the demon in his mind, which even now kept taunting him, tempting him with scandalous and dangerous suggestions?

No, he thought grimly. There was no reason for him to put up with that.

He let his trousers fall, baring the heavy shame between his legs. This unasked-for companion, his steadfast demon, his curse, which he had sought to bury along with the memory of Jean Valjean.

It was all Valjean's fault, he thought angrily, groaning as his fingers closed about the swollen flesh. Flaunting the rules of society and the law had not been enough for him; no, he'd had to wake Javert's own baser nature, the part of him that was still of the gutter, and do so over and over again, every time he was near...

But then again, Valjean had not counted on Javert's weakness to become a weapon. 

Gritting his teeth so as not to make a sound, Javert stared at the wall. There, somewhere on the other side, was Jean Valjean and the child he'd taken -- the whore's daughter. What Valjean wanted with her, Javert had no idea and he did not care. The only thing he cared about was to deliver Valjean into the grasp of the law once more.

 _The law_ , the demon in his head repeated, whispering voice growing more insistent at every harsh tug at his cock. _As if you do not want him in your own grasp, Javert._

He swallowed, hard, as images came to him, tempting and dangerous. To clasp his hands around Valjean's shoulders and draw him close, to tear his clothing open, garment by deceitful garment, until there was nothing left but the naked truth of the convict's body, broad and powerful and covered in scars. And then...

 _Then he would be yours, to do with as you pleased._ Javert pressed his left hand to his mouth to stifle his groan, thrusting feverishly into his other fist, and the demon laughed. _Do you need me to give you ideas?_

"I need no such thing!" Javert snapped, even as he felt his release drawing nearer. Indeed, his weakness might well be a weapon, but it was a weapon that could be turned against himself as well as Valjean. If he let himself be distracted, if he let himself be tempted, if he forgot his one true duty -- 

_What are you then, Javert?_

Nothing. Nothing but a corrupt weakling.

With a great shudder he spent himself, muffling his cry into his sleeve, unable to stop rocking into his own fist as his spend dripped from his soiled fingers and onto the floor. The walls were thin and for a heart-stopping moment he thought Valjean must have heard, that once again Valjean would slip from his grasp, and this time because Javert had given in to his own perversity. But then he heard a vague murmuring, high-pitched like a child's, and another, deeper voice, replying -- none of it was clear enough for him to make out the words, nor recognise any voices, but those were not the sounds of someone panicking, nor trying to flee. 

He would have him yet, Javert told himself, carefully wiping his sticky fingers on his handkerchief. If not tonight, then tomorrow. He would set his trap, and nothing, _nothing_ , would be permitted to distract him. 

 

*

 

Little by little, the darkness outside turned grey. Eventually the sun rose. Javert had allowed himself the ease of a chair, but had remained awake throughout the night, listening. Nothing and no one had stirred, except for his own thrice-damned blood -- the release had only lasted for so long. This time he had ignored it, letting the curse run rampant in his blood, the voice hissing taunts in his mind as he gloomily faced the wall. 

Reluctantly he got up and stretched his aching limbs. In an hour, he was to be at the stationhouse, and he had not brought his shaving tools with him; nor was there any fresh water. He would have to stop by his own rooms before reporting for duty, since there was no question of appearing before Monsieur Chabouillet without a fresh shave and a change of clothes. 

Vexing as it was to leave without the evidence he needed, Javert knew that it was merely a question of time. He had been careful and not given himself away. Now that he knew that Jean Valjean was within his reach -- yes, knew, no matter how unorthodox the source of his knowledge -- one more day of waiting was not such a hardship. 

He bade the landlady let him know if anything untoward happened with regards to the mysterious rentier, and then he left the house behind, ignoring the muttered protests of his demon. They grew fainter with every step he put between himself and the tenement, and when he finally sat in a fiacre headed towards his lodgings, the heat of his blood had all but cooled down. 

Javert welcomed the relief, although it made him feel twice as tired. No matter, he told himself; there would be time to sleep later. And once Jean Valjean was captured, Javert's nights would no longer be disturbed, his troublesome urges at last laid to rest. 

 

*

 

Javert put a hand in his pocket, feeling the familiar weight of his snuff box. Not yet, he told himself. Later. But not yet. 

Earlier, he had again been terribly close to failure. Spying the man and the child, doubt had struck him once more: what if he had been mistaken and the figure walking those dark streets was, in fact, some perfectly respectable Parisian? But as he got closer, the familiar stirring in his trousers, like that of a watchdog catching a scent, had reassured him. He had kept his distance, allowing Valjean to get ahead for a while, in order not to scare him away too soon. 

And then, close to the police station in the Rue Pontoise, he finally got a clear view, enough for his eyes to tell him what he already knew: the man was Jean Valjean.

 _I told you so,_ the voice whispered. Javert let it pass. 

He had two constables with him, but now it occurred to him that this might be insufficient. Bidding his men to wait outside, he went into the station house and asked for assistance. Only one man -- a constable named Girard, of whom Monsieur Chabouillet had spoken favourably -- was available. Better than do nothing, Javert reasoned as they left the building, and at any rate they could not afford any more delays. 

One of the men, Raymond, had spotted Valjean heading towards the Rue de l'Épée-de-Bois, but Javert would not have needed this observation to know the route they must take. They set off, the voice in his head ever more frantic: _Hurry!_

After some minutes they came to an intersection and paused there for a moment, catching their breaths. 

"Which direction, sir?" the constables asked. "Do you think he'll try to escape by the Barrière?"

"No." Javert spoke without thinking, knowing instinctively the man was wrong. "He's heading back towards the Jardin des Plantes." 

"Why would he do that, sir?" said the new man, Girard. "Does he have unfinished business there?" 

"I don't know," Javert snapped. Valjean could not be far away; he could still feel his presence like a faint throb in the air. "We need to get moving -- quick!"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but isn't the Barrière the more obvious choice?" Obviously this Girard had something to learn in the way of not questioning those above him in rank. Javert made a mental note to inform Monsieur Chabouillet, should the occasion present itself. "How do we know he's not heading in that direction?"

" _We_ don't know," Javert said tartly. He had no desire to explain himself to these lower-rank men, not that they ought to need one in the first place. "I have my reasons. Hurry, or he'll escape!" 

"Where do we go, sir?" asked Raymond. 

Girard still looked dubious, and Javert inwardly cursed the fact that the man was under someone else's command and not oliged to follow direct orders. The burning of his loins was growing fainter -- something which would have pleased him at any other time -- and the demonic voice had fallen into a pitiful whine: _Hurry, you fool! Hurry, or you'll lose him!_

He bowed his head, closing his eyes, feeling for Valjean's presence like a hound aiming for the scent of game, like a weatherman reading the direction of the wind. The river, he thought. Valjean was headed for the river, but not for the Île-de-la-Cité. 

"The Pont d'Austerlitz," he said without further ado. After a moment, the men followed suit. 

Despite the delay, he felt certain with each step that they were on the right track. The certainty rendered his mouth dry with anticipation, caused his skin to tingle. 

_Any time now,_ the demon chanted as they hurried along. _Any time now, any time now..._

At the bridge, the toll-keeper confirmed what he already knew. Halfway over, he could finally point them out to the men: two figures, a large and a small one, crossing the wide open space, hand in hand. Even as Javert watched, shivering with excitement, they hurried towards one of the dark, narrow streets. 

Earlier, he had feared being discovered too soon. Now, however, there was no need to hold back. Valjean had spotted them long ago and tried to shake them off without success; moreover, he was restrained by the child. Despite his strength, Jean Valjean had limits. Even he could not run forever, especially not with such a burden weighing him down. 

Javert watched the retreating figures for a moment, then bared his teeth. "After them." 

Clasping his nightstick firmly in one hand, he broke into a dash. The constables were at his heels, but Javert paid them little heed apart from the occasional hushed order. They were mere accessories in this hunt; the score that was to be settled was between him and Valjean. 

_But I am no mere accessory,_ the demon told him as they arrived at the other side. _If it were not for me, you never would have found him._

"If you think you are going to reap any sort of rewards, you are sorely mistaken," Javert hissed, heaving for breath. "I never asked for you, I never encouraged you, and I never promised you anything." 

The voice laughed. Javert narrowed his eyes, squinting at the darkness where Valjean had vanished. 

"Faster," he barked at the men, storming across the open space and into the shadowy lanes. 

He could taste the blood racing through his veins, he could hear the beats of his own pulse, he could feel the brutal pounding between his legs. The voice was still whispering encouragements and suggestions, neither of which he had asked for. Nor had he asked for the images of Jean Valjean's naked body moving under his hands, of the convict's eyes dark with desire as fierce as his own -- and this wild imagination did not belong to him, it was not of his doing, it was all due to that infernal demon possessing him with its outrageous desires. 

Now he recognised the street Valjean had disappeared into. His mind at once did the calculations. Rue de Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine, which forked into two streets, one of which led to a dead end. The other one, the Petite Rue Picpus, was the only possible escape. 

"Girard!" he called, pointing to his left. "Get around to the Rue Droit-Mur so he doesn't escape that way; otherwise we'll get him in the Cul-de-sac." A group of gendarmes came into view near the Arsénal, and he could not resist rubbing his hands together in glee. Finally Fate was on his side! 

He led the way into the Rue Polonceau, his steps sure and steady. There was no need to run anymore; indeed, Valjean might be hiding in some dark corner, waiting for them to rush past. So he moved forward deliberately, making sure the walls of the houses were properly searched, despite the voice in his mind scoffing at him: _You fool, you know he's further ahead!_

In truth, Javert did know. And yet he was unwilling to hurry. For so many years he had been on this hunt; for so many years his prey had slipped through his hands. Valjean had escaped him, but he had never truly escaped Valjean -- not since that day long ago, when he had been a young man and Jean Valjean a convict out of many. 

But now? They were at the end of the Rue Plonceau; a dead end lay in front of them. A trap, and Valjean was caught in it. 

Javert bared his teeth in a grin. There was no escaping that alley. Soon Jean Valjean would be his. 

He took a pinch of snuff and tried to ignore the fervent whisperings in his mind. _Go get him now, before it's too late! Why are you hesitating to get your hands on him?_

"I'm not hesitating!" Javert threw a glance over his shoulder to where his men were waiting for orders. "I'm simply taking my time, doing it properly not that you would understand such a thing... He can't escape now. He's ours." 

_Ours?_

"The police's!" he snapped. God, but why should his curse spoil even this, his moment of triumph? "Cease your natterings or else..."

 _Else what?_ His prick was chafing against his trousers now, hard and leaking. He had not touched himself since the night before, and now he felt himself on edge with pent-up energy, his heart beating fast but steady. _Are you going to try to get rid of me again -- before even laying hands on him?_

"Quiet!"

But despite the triumphant headiness filling his heart, he was beginning to feel strangely restless. What if the demon was right? 

He beckoned his men to follow him, then closed in on the alley with slow, deliberate steps. The voice was not going to prevent him from savouring his triumph, he told himself. He would not rush it, but allow himself to draw it out, just as he had planned -- but still, they did not have all night. There were limits to how self-indulgent he could be.

_Hurry, you fool! Hurry, or he will be gone!_

"Stop trying to spoil it," he snarled, but quickened his stride nonetheless, his breathing coming fast as he rounded the corner. There would be more than enough time to enjoy his victory once Jean Valjean was laid in chains, more than enough time to watch him struggle fruitlessly, captured once and for all -- 

The alley was empty .

Javert stopped in his tracks, his eyes scanning the dark space in front of him, looking for a shadow, a movement -- but there was nothing. Jean Valjean had disappeared, dissolved into nothingness like a dream upon waking. 

_What did I say?_ the voice cried, more shrill than snide now. _We lost him! You fool, you fool!_

He shook his head, barking at the men: "Search every nook and cranny, he _has_ to be in here somewhere."

They spent the next minutes looking for a trace of Jean Valjean anywhere and finding none. Javert's exhilaration was rapidly fading, the thrill of the hunt giving way to a cold sense of dread and shame. 

Could it be true? Could Jean Valjean have escaped his clutches once more? Despite Javert's carefulness, despite -- and here he gritted his teeth in furious defeat -- the warnings of Javert's own demonic side? But he had been so close! 

So close, only to have the man vanish between his hands. 

_We could have had him now_ , the accursed voice reminded him harshly, as if he needed the reminder. _He could have been ours. And now, we lost him, because of your slowness, your arrogance, your childish unwillingness to follow my advice, to trust me, your old companion --_

"I didn't ask for your advice!" he bit it off. "All you did was disrupt me. I had a plan, and you ruined it, you..."

He forced down all the words that came to mind, lest the men should hear him talk to himself and think him mad. Well, perhaps they would be right. What was this curse, and his own attempts to rid himself of it, if not madness?

If Jean Valjean was indeed gone, that meant his urges might leave him alone. It was a meagre consolation. His duty would remain unfulfilled, his task incomplete. Like a climax never reached, an itch impossible to scratch, a vague but constant nagging dissatisfaction. 

"Inspector?" Raymond approached him. "We have searched everywhere, and there's no trace. What should we do?" 

Javert pulled himself together. The excitement had not yet worn off, the whisper had not completely died; both were indications that Jean Valjean could not be too far away -- Javert, loath as he was to trust his demon in any respect, would trust it in this. 

"Search again," he said curtly. "He can't have dissolved into thin air." 

The man looked at the wall in front of them, at its dark corners. "Do you think he could have climbed it, Inspector?" 

"Climbed it?" For a moment he saw, as in a flash of a vision, Valjean's strong body nimbly scaling the wall, the fabric of his clothing tightening and shifting around his limbs. Then he shook his head grimly. "Not with the girl. Have you found any trace of her?" 

"None, sir," the man said, looking almost apologetic. Javert gnashed his teeth. 

The young man hesitated, then said, "I think, sir, that the walls surrounding the Cul-de-sac Genrot are lower, and the land beyond them uncultivated. Couldn't he have escaped that way?" 

"Good thinking," Javert said gruffly. The demon made a noise of protest; he ignored it. "Take Pelletier with you and follow. I will collect the gendarmes." 

He spent the rest of the night searching, more frantically than he had ever searched for anything, but not losing his head. The street-lamp in the Cul-de-sac Genrot was missing a cord; clearly Valjean had taken that route, as Raymond had suggested. Javert posted watches and sent off the remaining men to scour the gardens. 

It was all to no avail. Jean Valjean was gone, all traces of him were gone. Even the demonic whisper in Javert's mind was gone, and for the first time he regretted its absence. 

 

*

 

From the outside, the Gorbeau tenement looked much like it had done years earlier: shabby, disreputable, the perfect hideaway for scoundrels and crooks. For a moment, Javert remembered the sleepless night he'd spent in one of its rooms. Then he pushed the memory aside. No time to revisit old failures, not now when fresh victories were within his reach.

He looked at the dark façade, frowning. The pistols had not yet been fired. Either the time was not right, or the lawyer had got cold feet -- most likely the latter, Javert decided, curling his mouth. 

They'd captured one of Thénardier's girls, but the big fish still remained to be caught. If they did not enter now, the whole plan might be ruined. He waved at his men to follow and then made his way inside. Safely positioned outside the door, he listened with mounting amusement to the criminals's squabbles. It was too late now for their warning to do them any good!

"Would you like my hat, perhaps?" he asked at last, stepping into the room.

They gawked at him. His mouth widened; his blood quickened. Yes, this was pure satisfaction: to trap several such blackguards at once, to round them up and stowe them away behind bars, where they belonged! There was a thrill to it that could not compare to anything else, save perhaps --

"Inspector?" one of his men interrupted him. "They seem to be holding a gentleman hostage here."

"We arrived just in time then," Javert said, elated with triumph still. Something tickled at the back of his mind, but he had no thoughts to spare. 

Sneering, he looked over his captives. What a fine collection of scoundrels and cutthroats! To think that the boy had not fired the gun, even considering the peril the gentleman was in -- but no matter. They would soon enough be behind bars.

"Untie the gentleman," he said, sitting down at the desk to take notes of the happenings. "But no one leaves before I say so."

 _Untie him?_ the old voice repeated in incredulous tones. _Did you not look at him?_

The shock of again having that voice in his mind almost made him drop his pen, but then he remembered his duty. With a clenched jaw he proceeded to jot down everything that had happened: the lawyer, the trap, the delinquents who had already been arrested. Then, at last, he turned to have a good look at the gentleman. 

The window was open, a rope hanging out of it: he had fled. Fast and quiet enough for none of Javert's men to notice. 

"Damn it!" Javert barked, furious with himself, the constables, the escapee. "He must have been the best of the lot!" 

_You know he was._ By God, he had not missed those mocking tones. _Did I not tell you to look at him? DId you not know deep down who he was?_

Javert gathered his troops, criminals and constables alike, called on the carriages, and set off for prison. What should have been a great triumph was now marred by that nagging thought: Had he really once more let Jean Valjean slip from his grasp?

 _Perhaps you wanted him to,_ the voice whispered. _Perhaps you enjoy the chase too much. Perhaps you enjoy the thought that he is out there, free, unconquered, the ideal prey for you to hunt..._

"Nonsense!"

He kept himself busy for the rest of the night, picking up the remaining gang members, writing reports, getting everyone safely locked up. When finally he went home to his own chambers, it was almost dawn and he was so tired he was almost swaying on his feet, but that suited him well. Pulling off his boots and stripping off his clothes, he went to bed and fell asleep immediately, having no thoughts, no dreams, no whispered reminders of Jean Valjean. 

 

*

 

The rope was cutting into his neck, but at this point he had almost ceased to notice. What did it matter? He was going to die, and he was going to die honourably, never having abandoned his post. Even if there were any point in begging the rebels for mercy, he would not have done it. 

He, Javert, would die as he had lived: irreproachably. When wieved in this light, there was a strange consolation to be found in the physical discomfort. Let no man say that he had not suffered for the sake of duty. 

Outside there were yelling voices and shattering of gunfire. What fools, Javert thought, his lip curling. A band of ragamuffins trying to take on the state? It was ridiculous, all of it, as futile as those abrupt uprisings that from time to time had taken place in Toulon. 

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind, than a prickle went down his spine, all the way to his groin. Toulon, he thought and grimaced again, but then shook his head. Surely the old memory would not be enough to wake the demon within him. Not here, not after these long hours of being tied up like this, thirsty, exhausted and yet deprived of sleep. It was nothing short of impossible. 

Impossible, and yet -- there it was. That stirring of his flesh, that quickening of his blood he had come to know so well. But here in all places?

Shadows fell over the tavern's floor. The insurgents had returned, and with them someone new.

Javert straightened, as much as his position would allow. As his eyes met Jean Valjean's that familiar shock went through him; his prick gave a twitch, and he felt his mouth twitch in turn.

_Of course._

"It is perfectly simple," he said, nodding in acknowledgement. Yes, it was perfectly simple. He and his lustful body were one, after all. His instincts had served him faithfully, as he in turn had served the law. Even now that he was helpless, completely in the insurgents' power, these instincts had not failed him, but inevitably alerted him to Valjean's presence. And to think he had once thought them a curse and refused to see their worth!

He followed Valjean out of the tavern with a peculiar mixture of calmness and excitement. At least a death at this man's hands would be more meaningful than falling victim to a rebel's bullet, he thought, keeping his eyes at Valjean's broad shoulders right in front of him. The convict's mask of false respectability would fall away to reveal the brute underneath. 

_A brute you want,_ his mind whispered. This time, Javert saw no point in protesting. He was about to die; he would die an honest man in every sense of the word. Well, then: he would not protest. He was not a lover, but it was not love that heated his blood whenever Valjean was near. 

It was desire, base and common, no more and no less. As much a part of him as his pauper blood, and as distasteful. But he had chosen his path in life and turned away from those who would destroy rather than protect. So, too, with these unnatural leanings, which after all had never mastered him. He could have given in, let himself fall into depravity -- certainly there were places in Paris where such urges could be indulged -- but he had not. He had nothing to be ashamed of. 

He had resisted the lure of Jean Valjean, and if Jean Valjean were to kill him now, let him. 

_Perhaps he is not going to kill you,_ the voice whispered. _Perhaps he has other plans for you. Perhaps..._

As they climbed across the debris, Javert did nothing to fight the images that kept flooding his mind. On his knees there in the dirty alley? Against the wall? Valjean pressing a hand to his throat, pulling at his hair, biting his neck, mocking him --? The demon in Javert revelled in the thought of such indignities, and this time he did not protest. He was about to die either way, whatever Valjean was going to do to him first, and the shame would die with him. No one would know that Javert's body had hungered for a felon's touch. 

They came to a halt in the backalley. Valjean shoved him towards the wall, watching him without a word. Javert gave a grim smile.

"Well," he said. "You have hungered for this all your life, I should think." 

_So have you,_ the demon added, sending a jolt through his rising flesh as Valjean pulled out a knife. Against his will, Javert shuddered. To be so utterly bound and helpless in the hands of this devil of a man...

"A knife!" He grinned again, determined not to let anything show of his body's unholy lust. He would not lie to himself, but neither would he give Valjean the satisfaction of knowing what his closeness had brought about. "That's right. It suits you much better." 

Soon, he thought. _Soon_...

The ropes fell away.

Javert almost swayed where he stood. He looked at his arms and found that they were free, though the pain that shot through him as he tried to move his numb limbs made him grit his teeth. For a moment the agony was strong enough to drown out even the brutal throbbing of his groin. 

"You're free to go," said Valjean. 

It made no sense. None of this made sense. That Valjean would say such a thing -- no. He must have been mistaken. 

He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, Valjean was speaking again.

"I don't suppose I'll come out of here alive. But if I do, you'll find me at the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, number 7. I go by the name of Fauchelevent."

What could this mean? Was it a trap? 

_He's taunting you. He knows what you want, what you are._

Javert felt his mouth draw into a snarl. "Take care," he said. 

_Poor Javert --_ but the laughter sounded strained, as if this demon within him was as confused as Javert felt. _To come so far and not have him after all? What a terrible disappointment!_

"Go now," said Valjean, who was darting glances over his shoulder, no doubt listening for the insurgents.

"Fauchelevent, you said?" Javert repeated, mostly to drown out the nagging voice in his mind. "Number seven?" 

"Number seven". 

They looked into each other's eyes, just as they had done all those years ago. For a moment Javert saw before him the convict, bare-chested and toiling under the burning sun, and he felt as though his breath had been knocked out of him. 

Valjean's gaze was dark and weary, as it had been then, but now there was a peculiar peace in it. His hair was white, there were lines around his eyes and mouth, but he was the same man as he had been -- the man whom Javert had hunted and who had haunted him in turn, whose fate had been entwined with Javert's own in ways neither could have anticipated, who had stirred these unnatural urges in Javert like nobody else ever had. 

_I'd know him anywhere,_ his body snarled, and Javert knew it was true. 

The same man. Jean Valjean, the convict and the mayor. The same man, and he was letting Javert go free. 

Javert's head was spinning. He licked his lips. Wild scenarios raced through his mind; he thought of throwing himself at Vajean, of grinding against him, forcing a reaction, drawing out the brute that must be there, that he knew must still be there... But it could not be done. The convict and the mayor was one, and that man had bid him go.

 _What are you waiting for?_ the voice cried, more shrill than mocking now. _Take him! Make him show you what he is, and what you are!_

He shuddered. He could not think. 

"Number seven," he said again, stupidly, feeling helpless in the face of the confusion raging in him. What if Valjean was lying? But why would he do that? Why not simply kill Javert right away and be done with it? 

"Go," said Jean Valjean.

There was nothing more to be done. He turned around and did as he was bid, following the convict's orders, empty-handed but with his mind and body still in turmoil. 

_Look at you,_ the voice whispered. _So close and you failed. And later? Will you arrest the man who just sent you away? Will you be able to do that? Or will you throw yourself at him, give us what we want at last, give up all pretense at honour..._

Javert stopped. He had no idea how to silence the voice. Not anymore. And had he not acknowledged it was part of him? Well, then; he had no idea how to silence himself. He had been wrong. He was still wrong. There was no way for him to be right, not with what Valjean had done. 

"I find this embarrassing," he said, as much to himself as to Valjean. "Why don't you kill me instead?" 

"Go!" said Valjean again, and Javert had no choice but to obey. 

Once away from there, he walked as if in a daze, his legs carrying him where he was meant to go without his conscious command. The station house was a safe haven, he would report there and be told what to do, and the world would fall into place once more. Perhaps he would be allowed to forget what had happened. Perhaps he would be given new orders, kept busy. Perhaps there was a way for him to be distracted from that horrible nagging doubt.

_Try as you might, you won't forget. Just like you never forgot him during all those years. Just a convict and you let him have this much power over you? Surely he must have seen your weakness. Surely he's laughing at you right now, plotting his real revenge, how best to take advantage of you, leaving you shamed and exposed --_

"That's enough!" he snarled. "You know him no better than I." 

At this there came no reply. For the first time in more years than he could count, the demon inside him fell silent, though his mind was still a whirl, and his blood still quickened at the memory of Jean Valjean's fleeting touch.


	3. Chapter 3

At first he had almost believed it gone. When he woke up, battered and half-conscious, his mind was in turmoil but that particular voice was not to be heard. 

He had not thrown himself into the river. He had meant to, but someone had stopped him. A hand on his leg, a warm touch that had sent shivers through his exhausted body. The bruises he felt were the results of the long hours at the insurgents' mercy. There was nothing else wrong with him, apart from this: the memory of the ever-insistent murmuring torment that always followed when Valjean was near. 

For a few unreal moments it had been quiet as he lay there in bed, trying to piece together his fragmented recollections. Then, a knock on the door, Valjean's soft voice asking if he was awake. And that was all it took for his flesh to come alive, blood rushing to that part of his body that kept behaving as if Valjean and not Javert were its master, and he had barely been able to choke down a groan and reply that he was awake, indeed. 

Then the awkwardness of meeting the girl, the prostitute's daughter; the pain of watching Valjean's barely hidden fear and realising it was not the chains he feared as much as the chance that Javert would tell her the truth; the stuttering excuses and brisk reassurances that he would be fine and that he would inconvenience them no longer -- all the while trying to ignore the heaviness between his legs and praying neither of them would notice. 

Those first few days had been a time of turmoil. Even now, weeks later, he still felt sometimes as if he were living in a dream, where everything looked the same and yet the laws guiding the universe had shifted, becoming unpredictable and frail. He had been allowed back to his post, but barely. They had put him in charge of patrolling an area on the left bank, and let someone else write the reports on that fatal night -- apparently he was not to be trusted. Javert accepted this, as he was forced to accept the new truths revealed to him. Jean Valjean could not be arrested; Javert could not escape from his own sentence of life. 

And each night, after his shift ended, he found himself drawn towards the Rue de l'Homme-Armée, not only at the steadfast insistence of his greedy body, but also of his new and tormented heart. 

He would knock on the door and Valjean would open; by some kind of tacit understanding Valjean would then don his hat and coat and come out to join him, and they would walk the streets together, mostly in silence, Javert still struggling with all the answer-less questions, Valjean quiet but pensive, but no longer pale with fear.

Javert, who had lived for his duty, now lived for these walks that were so soothing to his troubled mind while simultaneously frustrating it. For the demon, his constant companion, would still not be silenced. 

Once again he would lie sleepless at night, plagued by the unholy desire riding him. Valjean's eyes, his rare smile, his gentle presence: these things now blended with the memory of the tanned chest of the convict, the powerful body that had lifted a cart off a dying man, the strong hands that had tugged him across the barricades, bound like a Christmas goose. His power over Javert was greater than ever, and Javert did not dare consider how he might react, were he to know the truth.

 _Just tell him,_ the voice insisted as Javert gave in, as he always did, letting his hand wander down. _Let him know how desirable he is, how much you want him, how you have always wanted him --_

"Quiet," Javert grunted, folding his fingers around his prick and giving it a hard tug. The thought of Valjean's disbelieving face sent a jolt through him of despair and shameful, humiliated heat. "Isn't it bad enough you have harangued me all these years? That you want me to bother him with these base urges, _him,_ the best man we ever knew..."

But his longing would not listen to reason. It pulsated through him with every restless heartbeat, drove his hand, drove his breathless mutterings -- " _Valjean, Valjean, Valjean!_ " -- made him arch into his own grip and imagine he was begging for a better man's touch, a man who did not deserve to be besmirched by Javert's unwanted lusts. And the voice in his mind urged him on, not mocking now but fervent, painting for him every scenario imaginable and filling his mind and heart with fruitless fantasies. 

_Not impossible,_ the voice whispered afterwards as he lay back down after having washed the stickiness from his hands and thighs. _Just think of it. His hands on you, on me. His mouth. His cock -- imagine what it would be like, so hard and large and straining. He would be so strong and yet so gentle as to make it almost unbearable. To think of all those things that we could have, that you could have... Are you that much of a coward?_

Indeed, Javert thought, the voice was more cruel than ever, for now it tempted him with things that seemed attainable although he knew they were not. If the convict had always been an impossible dream, then were not these new fantasies even more so -- he, a sinner, craving the touch of a saint? 

 

*

 

One day in autumn, Valjean was not at home when Javert knocked. The girl said he was out, though neither she nor the housekeeper knew where he might be. Javert tried not to heed his disappointment, tinged as it was with guilt: did not Jean Valjean have the right to do as he wished with his own time? Was Javert in any way entitled to his attention?

Walking back down the street, he reluctantly examined his own feelings, the way he had grown more and more accustomed to these last few months. Most of all he tried to understand why Valjean's absence hurt to the point of almost feeling like a betrayal, unjustified as such a feeling might be. Was Valjean avoiding him? Did he still think Javert might suddenly decide to haul him off in chains and send him back to Hell? It was clear enough by now that if Javert wanted to arrest him, he would have done so already -- wasn't it? 

Did Valjean not truly believe him a changed man?

"No," he muttered to himself, pausing at the street corner. Valjean liked to walk in the Luxembourg Gardens, he knew as much. But did Javert have any right to seek him out? "He wouldn't do that. He believes men can change."

 _But do you ever change, Javert?_ the voice murmured, along with the familiar stirring in his trousers that the mere thought of Valjean seemed to bring about these days. _Certainly not in this respect._

"Oh, for God's sake!" Javert gnashed his teeth. 

Then, all of a sudden, a new determination filled him. He would never get rid of this. Not even now that the object of his desires had proved himself a better man by far, making it more and more improbable that he ever should share Javert's sordid dreams. No, this was his cross and he must bear it, as Valjean had borne his. But he would do it. He would gladly go through this torment and never say a word, as long as he could do it by Valjean's side. 

In the meantime, he could make use of this thing that was tormenting him, as he had done before.

"Well then," he said, squaring his shoulders, prepared to follow where his body led. "Take me to him." 

 

*

 

Valjean was standing by the river, his back to him. Javert realised they were not far from the Pont-au-Change, which gave him pause. It was nearly evening and the sun was setting, and Valjean's figure was dark against the parapet. For a moment a strange dread filled Javert; he clutched his nightstick, shifting uneasily on his feet.

Then determination returned, and his body did not protest. _Go to him,_ the voice whispered, his blood roaring its agreement. Without protest this time, Javert crossed the street. 

A few feet away, he paused again. He could feel Valjean's presence, the pull of it, the way his nerves tingled from it. He looked at Valjean's neck, covered under layers of coat and collar and cravat, and thought of the nape underneath. He imagined putting his lips to it, breathing in the scent of Valjean's skin. He imagined -- 

_Go to him._

He cleared his throat. Valjean turned, a bit too swiftly for Javert's liking; for a moment he imagined there was a hint of fear in Valjean's eyes, but it passed quickly enough as his face softened into a half-smile that made Javert twitch. "Good evening, Javert," he said.

"Good evening." He felt a bizarre urge to take off his hat, mostly to keep his hands engaged so that he would not forget himself and touch Valjean. They were standing opposite another next to the parapet, and while no closer than they had been during their walks, it was different like this -- standing still, face to face, too close for comfort. 

"You weren't at home," he said, intending it as an explanation and fearing it sounded like an accusation. Hastily, he added, "I hope you don't mind my company."

"Never," Valjean said, seemingly unaware of how extraordinary this statement was. "How did you find me here?"

Javert shifted on his feet, a faint snickering at the back of his mind. "I had a feeling."

Valjean turned away from him to look out at the river. "I'm sorry," he said. "I did not mean to be rude. I needed to go out a little earlier today. You see..." 

He paused. From where Javert was standing, it seemed like his face, cast in shadows, darkened further. "Sometimes I cannot bear it." 

Javert waited for him to go on, but Valjean said nothing. At length, he had to ask. "Bear what?"

"Knowing she will leave, and that soon I will be alone once more."

"Alone?" Javert's mouth replied without his consent. "Nonsense." 

Valjean looked at him again, frowning slightly. Javert's cheeks heated.

"I only mean to say," he said, annoyed with himself, "that you do not have to be -- that is to say, if you wish -- I offer you my company."

"Well," Valjean said, the half-smile again lurking at the corners of his mouth. "Javert, I don't know what to say." 

"No. Nor do I." He felt cleared his throat again, feeling more and more ridiculous. Had he not inflicted his own company on Valjean over these last weeks, never asking whether Valjean wanted it or not? "I know perfectly well it is not the same thing." 

_Don't stop now,_ the voice nagged him. _Go on! Tell him you are his if he wants you._

"I -- my company," he said roughly. "It's yours if you want it. Well, it's been yours over the weeks whether you wanted it or not, because I am a fool and I never thought to ask. But I would not see you unhappy. I would like --" 

He floundered again. _'I would like to kiss you,'_ the voice hissed. 

"I would like for you to count me as your friend," Javert said, staring stiffly out at the river. He thought he could hear an exasperated sigh and prayed it was the voice and not Valjean.

Some seconds passed, during which he started to wonder if everything was lost. Then his heart gave a pause; his erection gave a twitch. Valjean had stepped closer and now he put a hand on Javert's arm. 

"I have wondered," he said softly. "I know what the law says, and I meant what I said, that night: arrest me, if you must. But you haven't. I wondered if you believed me when I said there was no obligation, that you have felt bound by your honour -- but why would your honour bind you to a convict?" 

Javert shuddered instinctively at his words, though his body was acutely aware of the warmth of Valjean's touch. "Don't say such things." It came out more roughly than he'd wanted. "Do you honestly think some misguided sense of honour is what has kept me from -- from destroying you? No, Jean Valjean, no." 

He still could not bear to look at him, but the words came tumbling out. "I have no more honour than a mongrel. Probably less. A mongrel does not take himself to be better than he is. I thought I was beyond it all -- no cowardice and no weakness. Ha! As weakness would send a man to his knees to save another! As if it is not cowardice that kept me from facing the truth of my own self!" 

He stopped, trying to gather his thoughts. _Say it,_ the voice insisted. _Say it._

"I will never arrest you," he said, voice low. "I give you my word, for what the word of a mongrel is worth. Not now, not ever. To think that you thought -- have you been waiting all this time for me to...? God," he muttered, shuddering again. "What a wretch I am."

Valjean stepped closer still, so close that Javert thought he could feel his breath against his cheek -- or was it the wind? It must be the wind. He closed his eyes for a moment, for once hoping the voice in his mind would tell him what to do, but all he could feel was the heavy, insistent throbbing between his legs. 

"I do not understand you, Javert," Valjean murmured. Javert kept his eyes stiffly on the river, trying not to tremble. "But I would be happy to count you as my friend -- why, I already do." 

He forgot himself, then, turning wildly towards Valjean. "Do you really -- ?" 

The words stuck in his throat, for Valjean was so close now, and though they were standing in shadow, Javert could make out every trait of his face, the fine lines around his eyes, the soft curve of his mouth. It was the face of the convict who had haunted him all those years ago; it was the face of the fallen mayor who had stood before him in a hospital in Montreuil; it was the man who had held his life in his hands at the barricades and given it back to him -- and who in doing so had found Javert's heart, and unknowingly had kept it for himself. 

Yes, Javert thought, yes, his heart as well as his desire. He could no longer tell where one ended and the other began. His face was flushed, his pulse high; the voice in his head was whispering nothing more than _tell him tell him tell him_ in urgent tones. 

"I should tell you," he began, then stopped. What was there to say? Should he tell Valjean of that day long ago in Toulon, of how his presence had affected him? It seemed impossible. He could not find any words.

But his body spoke for him, taking action against his inaction. He stepped closer in turn, so that they were almost standing chest to chest, only separated by their layers of clothing. Valjean tilted his head back slightly to look him in the eye. There was no fear in his gaze but no resignation either, only warmth and -- could it be affection? Javert's mind was helpless now that his flesh had taken over: helplessly it witnessed him close his eyes and lean in, his mouth to Valjean's mouth. 

As soon as their lips met, a shock went through him of pure delight, and it was all he could do not to moan out loud. His hands had come to grip Valjean's arms instead, clutching at them almost desperately, and he vaguely wondered if this was out of line, but then all of his behaviour was out of line to begin with. 

He could not bring himself to pull away, but stayed still, panting helplessly against Valjean's mouth. Valjean hadn't moved, neither to respond nor to withdraw; his lips were warm against his own, a little dry but soft, and his body so warm and hard in Javert's grip. 

_This_ , the voice in his mind chanted. _This, this, this._

"There it is," he said, his breath coming fast. "This is who I am. Look, I even did this to you now, in public even -- shameless creature that I am! But nevertheless, Valjean, it is true: my life is yours, anything you could want from me is yours."

Finally he dared open his eyes. Valjean was watching him, a flush on his cheekbones. He did not look displeased, but rather puzzled and a bit dazed; his mouth was wet and slighly red. Javert tore his eyes from it with difficulty and raised his gaze to meet Valjean's. They stared at each other for a long moment, still standing close together.

"Well, then," Valjean said, smiling faintly. To Javert's immense relief, he sounded neither repulsed nor pitying. "I did not expect that." 

Javert let out a nervous bark of a laugh. "If you only knew --!" 

He realised he was still gripping Valjean's shoulders and tried to let go, but somehow found himself holding Valjean's hands between his own instead. He was unbearably aroused by now, to the point where he feared he might spill himself in his trousers, and yet he could not bear to let go of Valjean now that he finally was touching him. 

"I have longed to do that for so long," he said quietly. "Even as I fought against it. Even as I thought this longing shameful. But now I know that there is nothing shameful in your touch, and if you would give it to me freely, I'd be the happiest man on Earth. But I do not expect that. It is a miracle that you are willing to call me friend, and I could never wish for anything more..." 

_Liar._

"Well." He cleared his throat, annoyed. "I would never ask for anything more, is what I meant to say." 

Valjean nudged his hands open so that Javert had no choice but to ease his grip. However, Valjean did not pull away, but let his hands rest lightly on top of Javert's, palm to palm. "You'd let me go," he said. "If that was my wish." 

"Yes." Javert could hardly think, but he knew he must be honest. "If that was your wish. But only then." 

Valjean shivered, almost imperceptibly. He took Javert's right hand between his own and stroked his palm lightly, and Javert trembled in turn at the gentle touch.

"What are you doing to me?" Valjean whispered, barely loud enough for Javert to hear it. "I never wanted..." He let out a strange sound; a moment later Javert realised it was an incredulous laugh. "Indeed, this is very strange. Perhaps we are both beside ourselves."

"Perhaps we should put it to the test," Javert heard himself saying, "and do it again. If you don't object." 

Valjean shook his head, looking half incredulous still. And so Javert pulled him close and kissed him there again, in the shadow of a tree close to the parapet where he had tried and failed to end his life, and Valjean's mouth opened under his with a sigh, and everything that was in Javert sighed in turn, a great resounding _Yes._


	4. Epilogue

At some point Valjean had fallen asleep. His breath was steady and soft, tickling Javert's ear; his bed was narrow and his pillow small, and so it was no wonder they were lying like this, tangled together.

_No wonder?_

Well, Javert corrected himself, daring to run a finger along Valjean's back, breathing in the scent of his hair. It was indeed the greatest of miracles. If these last few hours were nothing but a dream, he hoped he would never wake up. To know such pleasure as he had experienced at Valjean's touch -- he could hardly believe it. Never would he have thought himself worthy of such joy.

 _Yes, you've been far luckier than you deserve,_ the voice in his mind agreed. _Thankfully, I never gave you up._

He could practically hear the grin. _I always thought you'd have it in you, and look! I was right._

"Oh, do shut up," Javert muttered, but rather half-heartedly; he was still too blissful to feel anything but uncharacteristic benevolence. "You got what you wanted in the end. Are you going to leave me alone now?"

 _Leave you alone?_ the voice laughed. _Now?_

For a second Javert felt the old annoyance stir anew. He opened his mouth, ready to retaliate. Then Valjean sighed against his neck, and he forgot everything but the joys of last night, the warmth of their embrace, the mysterious gift that had become his to ponder, to cherish and hold close. 

_Leave you alone now, of all times,_ his demon murmured, sounding almost fond. _Oh, Javert, you have still so much to learn._


End file.
